


under the boardwalk (we'll be fallin' in love)

by logicalspecs



Series: modern au les mis! [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Hurt Enjolras, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, There was only one bed!, as we all are, domestic amis!, don't look to hard for a plot in this one you won't find it, enjolras doesnt know how to take care of himself, grantaire is hopelessly in love with him, i really just wanted to fit every single one of my favourite tropes in this fic, its all here!, pining grantaire and enj!, the lads go to a cottage!!, we've got overworked enj!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:48:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25643809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logicalspecs/pseuds/logicalspecs
Summary: He soon registers what woke him up; the door to the room left of his creaks slowly, the sound abnormally loud in the silence of the early morning. Gentle, sock-padded footsteps trail across the living room.It can't be Jehan, who he knows is sleeping soundly in the room to his right, bundled in an older flower covered duvet. It can't be Courfeyrac or Combeferre, the pair of them having taken over the master bedroom that sits at the end of a hall branching off the kitchen. It's clearly not Joly, whose dark hair he had just spit out, nor Bossuet, who is snoring lightly, his fingers resting gently on Grantaire’s stomach. That leaves only one person, the only person who would be up at this ungodly hour: Enjolras.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Series: modern au les mis! [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1891693
Comments: 10
Kudos: 145





	under the boardwalk (we'll be fallin' in love)

**Author's Note:**

> [title from under the boardwalk by the drifters]
> 
> this is very self-indulgent but i hope y'all like it anyways!

He wakes to a weight on his chest and a tuft of hair in his mouth. There’s a dim light coming through the edges of the blinds, indicating the early hours of the morning. Pulling away from the hair tickling his face, he reaches blindly for his phone, scouring the tangled sheets for wherever it ended up throughout the night.

Wrangling it free, he checks the time, squinting at the bright screen. _4:51am._

He then registers what woke him up; the door to the room left of his creaks slowly, the sound abnormally loud in the silence of the early morning. Gentle, sock-padded footsteps trail across the living room.

It can't be Jehan, who he knows is sleeping soundly in the room to his right, bundled in an older flower covered duvet. It can't be Courfeyrac or Combeferre, the pair of them having taken over the master bedroom that sits at the end of a hall branching off the kitchen. It's clearly not Joly, whose dark hair he had just spit out, nor Bossuet, who is snoring lightly, his fingers resting gently on Grantaire’s stomach. That leaves only one person, the only person who would be up at this ungodly hour: Enjolras.

He hears the distant bubbling of someone pouring water from the cooler, and ignores the image of a sleepy, lightly flushed, bed-headed Enjolras in favour of curling slightly more into himself and trying to fall back asleep. 

He nearly succeeds, his eyes dropping shut despite the light beginning to shine through the curtain when he hears a noise from beyond the door. It's the sound of someone typing, a light tapping, as though they're afraid of someone hearing. 

Now awake again, his curiosity (and concern) getting the better of him, he slowly begins to pull himself from Joly's unrelenting sprawl across him. The young doctor stirs slightly, brown eyes flickering open tiredly.

"R? What's wrong?" Joly asks, beginning to sit up, clearly attempting to be more alert than the early hour will permit.

"Nothing, Jol. Just going to the bathroom. Go back to sleep." He smiles, reassuring, and Joly nods, dropping his head back to the Bossuet’s chest instantly.

He is nearly to the door when he hears Joly mumble: "Be back soon. 't's cold without you." 

He ignores the warmth that blooms in his chest at those words.

The door creaks open, the noise loud in the dead of the night, and the typing sound of the keyboard stops suddenly.

As soon as the door is open, he locks eyes with a certain blond sitting at the table they had set up in the living room, his fingers hovering frozen above his laptop.

Enjolras looks almost as divine as he had pictured him; the glow of dawning light catches in his hair and on the bridge of his nose, creating an ethereal glow around him. His hair is in the same bun that he had put it in last night, to keep it out of the lake water, but now a few strands have come loose, framing his features. His cheeks have that rosy flush he had pictured, but it looks almost sickly instead of warm from a cozy bed. Enjolras' eyes are as sharp as ever, though wide at having been caught, but there's a deep purple under them that shatters an illusion somewhere in Grantaire’s mind.

"Good morning, Grantaire." Enjolras says, tone even and quiet. There's a strange look in Enjolras' gaze, a sort of uncertainty that Grantaire has never seen before. He can almost physically see a wave of composure wash over Enjolras, his fingers lowering to rest on the keys. He straightens his back and lifts his chin, and it's a motion that seems almost practiced. Something sinks in Grantaire's gut.

"It's four in the morning, Enjolras." He says finally, shutting the door to Joly and Bossuet's room with a faint click. Enjolras takes a small sip from the glass next to him.

"It's nearly five, now," Enjolras says, and Grantaire snorts.

"That doesn't make it any better, Apollo." In a moment of uncharacteristic bravery, he moves to sit next in the chair next to Enjolras. Enjolras stares at him for a moment, and Grantaire ignores the stab of pain in his heart as he registers the surprise in Enjolras' gaze. 

As Enjolras turns back towards his laptop, Grantaire takes the opportunity to glance at his screen. It's open to a Google doc, an essay of some kind.

"Whatcha working on?" He asks, and Enjolras sighs, barely noticeably. Grantaire stifles a wince.

"An essay." Is the answer, curt and sounding incredibly exhausted.

"But it's summer?" Grantaire says, raising a brow.

"It's for the ABC." Enjolras answers, drumming a thumb lightly against the edge of his laptop.

Grantaire waits a moment, for some sort of elaboration or explanation. Enjolras has always been eager to share his work, eyes alight with the passion that draws Grantaire to him like a moth to a flame. Enjolras says nothing. It’s then that alarm bells begin to truly ring in his mind.

Enjolras, contrary to what Grantaire initially believed, is a fairly quiet and introverted person. During the meetings at the Musain, he is content to lean against the back wall, a position that gives him the ideal vantage point to survey the gathering. He will begin the meetings with an introduction of their next campaign, or a recap of their current one, but then he steps back and just listens, occasionally speaking up to guide the conversation back on topic.

However, when given the proper prompting, he begins to soar. Grantaire usually takes up this… prompting, though in his case, it’s more provoking. He doesn’t only speak up at meetings to rile Enjolras up (though that is part of it; he’ll do anything to have that fiery passion shown to him), but also to bring some realism to their goals. Enjolras’ idealism is admirable, but it is just that: idealism. The world is a cruel place, and if Grantaire has to be the one to remind him of that, so be it. 

The somewhat tense silence that has enveloped them is only broken by Enjolras’ typing. Grantaire watches his fingers dance across the keys, lithe and nimble. _God, he has nice hands._

He quickly shoves that thought from his mind and hopes that his cheeks aren't as red as they feel.

Enjolras' fingers freeze suddenly, mid-word, and he looks over at Grantaire with a look of mild horror in his eyes. Grantaire startles slightly, instinctively raising both his hands in a placating manner.

"Enj? You good?" There’s a sinking feeling boring a pit in Grantaire's stomach. Enjolras looks almost manic with exhaustion, blue eyes dull yet anxious. There’s a beat. Grantaire’s heart is pounding in his ears.

"Did I wake you up?" Is what Enjolras finally says, all in one quick exhale.

"What? No, you're good, it's fine. Are you-" He cuts himself off, not sure if there is a line he is about to cross. "Are you okay? Did you sleep last night?"

Enjolras looks back towards his laptop, his posture going ramrod straight. Grantaire curses himself.

"I’m fine. And yes, I slept last night." Enjolras begins typing again, his fingers bashing aggressively at the keys.

Grantaire opens his mouth to confront him further when the sound of a door opening catches his attention.

"Oh, good morning!" A new voice, belonging to one Jean Prouvaire, says. It’s far too cheerful for five in the morning, but Grantaire can't say he expected any less from Jehan. Their red hair is pulled into a ponytail with a floral printed hair-tie and they're dressed in leggings and a loose tank top. A pair of runners dangle from their hands, hanging by the laces.

Jehan smiles a knowing smile as they see Grantaire and Enjolras that has Grantaire sending a glare in return. They lift their sneakers slightly as they begin making their way to the kitchen. "I'm gonna go for a run, see if I can catch the sunrise. Either of you wanna come?"

Grantaire makes a disgusted face that brings a laugh from Jehan, the sound bright. Grantaire can't help but drop the expression in favour of smiling in return.

Enjolras smiles too, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He gestures loosely at his laptop and shrugs at Jehan, whose smile stays on their face, but Grantaire can see their brow crease slightly in concern. 

“Well, I’ll be back soon. Don't have too much fun without me,” Jehan says, then crosses towards the kitchen. Grantaire hears the back door click shut a moment later.

He turns back to Enjolras, who is blinking rather forcefully, as though trying to clear something from his vision.

Grantaire can’t help the frown he’s sure is crossing his expression. A yawn suddenly breaks past his defenses, and he turns away from Enjolras in a futile attempt at stifling it.

When he looks back, Enjolras is staring at him, weary. 

“You should go back to bed. I’ll be quiet,” Enjolras says, a gentle expression on his face. It’s far more sincere a look than Grantaire usually receives, and it catches him off-guard.

“I already said it wasn't your fault-” He begins, but Enjolras just hums and nudges him in the direction of his room.

Grantaire can't quite resist the pull of the warm bed, and acquiesces. He pulls himself up with an exaggerated groan, which draws a tight-lipped smile from Enjolras. Small victories.

As he reaches the door, hand on the doorknob, he turns back to Enjolras, who is staring blankly into the distance, his expression vacant.

“You should try and go back to sleep, too, y’know.” Enjolras startles, just slightly, and nods. Grantaire knows he won't listen.

He settles back into the bed, Joly humming contentedly as he wraps back around Grantaire. The cottage is silent for a blissful moment, before Enjolras’ typing starts up again.

Grantaire sighs into Joly’s hair, and curls further into the pillow, trying to ignore the deep, worrying ache in his chest as he falls back into a restless slumber.

~//~

When Grantaire wakes up again, it's to the sound of pleasant chatter out in the living room. Joly is sitting up on the edge of the bed, pulling on a pair of socks. Bossuet is leaning on his shoulder, humming softly. It's sickenly sweet, and Grantaire reaches for his phone to snap a quick picture. Bossuet notices, and smiles as he takes it, but Joly is ever oblivious. 

He sends the picture to Musichetta, who would be showing up sometime tomorrow.

It's basically tradition now, all of them going to Courfeyrac’s grandparents cottage. It had started off as just Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras, back in high school, but as their friend group grew, so did the summertime residents of the little cottage. 

They would all come and go as they pleased, heading back to the city for work and then coming in for the weekends. It was nice, and Grantaire wouldn't miss it for the world.

At the moment, the current residents total seven; Joly, Bossuet, Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Jehan, and himself. Everyone else is coming in for the weekend, minus Feuilly, who is only coming in for the day on Sunday. His second job keeps him busy all through Saturday.

“Good morning, R,” Joly says cheerfully, finally noticing his wakefulness. “How are you feeling?”

Grantaire smiles. It’s a question Joly asks all of them every morning they’re together, and to others it may seem annoying, but Grantaire thinks it’s sweet.

“I’m good. Thanks for asking, Jol.” The doctor smiles brightly, and the three of them make their way into the living room.

Jehan greets them first, hair still damp from being freshly showered. They’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, staring out the window at the clouds. Combeferre is next to them, reading as he leans against Courfeyrac, who has his hands in Combeferre’s hair. It’s sickenly domestic, and Grantaire secretly loves every bit of it.

Enjolras is nowhere to be found, he realizes warily. Grantaire hopes for a moment that he finally actually got some rest, but the open door to his room suggests otherwise. Maybe he went to the master, since it’s farther from the noisy living room. Wishful thinking, Grantaire knows.

Joly, Bossuet, and himself all settle on the opposite couch, exchanging greetings with the others and talking over their plans for the day. It’s pleasant, and Grantaire leans his head on Joly’s shoulder, basking in the moment.

He’s watching Combeferre and Courfeyrac, the pair being all sweet with each other, which means he sees the fear fill Courfeyrac’s gaze. He watches those brown eyes widen in almost slow motion, and pit settles in his chest. He knows, if he turns around, he will see Enjolras, and he’s terrified of the state he’ll find him.

“Enj!” Courfeyrac’s voice rings clear as he springs to a sitting position, jostling Combeferre’s book, which falls to the ground with an echoing thud that resounds in the tense silence that follows his startled cry.

There’s a sickening dread pooling in Grantaire’s stomach as he turns to follow Courfeyrac’s wide-eyed, horrified gaze. The ache only worsens as he catches sight of their chief.

Enjolras stumbles through the doorway from the kitchen, one hand clenched around his stomach. For a terrible moment, Grantaire mistakes the red ribbon that had once held back Enjolras’ blond hair, now bundled in his fist as his arm wraps around his abdomen, to be blood, stark against Enjolras’ pale blue tank top.

“I-” Enjolras sinks slowly to his knees as Combeferre rushes to help him down. Joly darts into his room, but Grantaire pays that no mind.

He can hear Courfeyrac going into panic mode behind him (“Is he okay? Should I dial 112? Or start the car? There’s a hospital in the town fifteen minutes away-”), but he barely registers it beyond the blood rushing in his ears.

Enjolras’ breathing is laboured, and it takes a moment for Grantaire to register it for what it is: a panic attack.

“Breathe with me, Enj, okay?” Combeferre hands ease Enjolras’ head into his lap, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into the hair tucked behind Enjolras’ ear. He begins to count, voice calm and steady, though the worry reflected in his eyes betrays his true emotions.

Grantaire isn’t sure how long they all sit there, crouched in a protective circle around their pseudo leader, but every second that passes with Enjolras’ hyperventilating and Combeferre’s ceaseless counting filling the room bores a deeper and deeper hole in his stomach. The air is suffocating, and his heart is pounding in his chest as he stares helplessly as his only source of light chokes on the ground.

He didn’t even know Enjolras had panic attacks. He never even seemed to get sick, and Grantaire assumed it was just one of the many perks of being as godly as Enjolras. Though, after this morning, Grantaire wonders just how many times Enjolras has ignored his own suffering for the sake of continuing his work.

Combeferre seems to be aware of Enjolras’ needs in moments like this, immediately having jumped into action after hearing Enjolras’ uneven breaths, so he must have witnessed this before. It’s not exactly surprising, as the two are practically attached at the hip, but it is nevertheless a distressing realization. The mere thought of Enjolras in pain sends a swirl of nausea in Grantaire’s gut.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Courfeyrac take Enjolras’ hand in his own, and Grantaire can see the shake in his fingers. Joly is now hovering next to Combeferre, wringing the strap of his medical bag around his wrists, cutting off his own circulation in his nervousness. Bossuet carefully eases the bag away from him and places a soothing hand on the small of Joly’s back. Jehan stands behind all of them, shuffling from foot to foot.

They very well could have been there for hours, until Enjolras’ chest begins to even out. He swallows, seemingly gathering his words before he attempts to speak. Grantaire leans forward.

“Can,” Enjolras’ breath stutters, and Grantaire’s chest tightens. “Can I have a glass of water?”

Grantaire books it past them, towards the kitchen, before anyone else can even blink. _Finally,_ he thinks, _something I can do._ As he reaches for the handle of the cupboard, he notices the distinct tremble in his own hand, and clenches his fist tightly in hopes of stopping it. It doesn’t work.

As he fills the glass, he can hear a quiet conversation emerge from the other room.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Comes Courfeyrac’s voice, quiet and afraid and everything that Courfeyrac is usually not.

“I was in the washroom. I-,” Enjolras pauses, and Grantaire can almost hear the crinkle in his brow as he thinks. “I thought I was going to throw up, but I didn’t, and then I got really lightheaded. I didn’t want to pass out in the washroom and hit my head or something and not have any of you realize, so I came out here.”

The image of Enjolras, collapsed and unmoving, on the tiled floor of the washroom, blood dripping sluggishly down the perfect skin of his lifeless face, sends a jolt through Grantaire’s body, and he spills some of the water. Swearing under his breath, he blinks the image away (though he knows it will likely visit him in a drunken nightmare), refills the glass, and makes his way back to the living room.

They have moved Enjolras to the couch by the time he gets there, letting only him lie across it. Combeferre sits on the arm of the couch, by Enjolras’ head, and he has a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. The other is pressed in Courfeyrac’s, who clings to him like a lifeline, his eyes trained on Enjolras’ face. Joly kneels on the floor next to Enjolras, digging in his medical bag in search of God knows what. Bossuet and Jehan are on the opposite couch, watching the scene with mirrored worried expressions.

Grantaire approaches slowly, cautiously, and hands the glass to Enjolras. The man looks incredibly grateful, and smiles at Grantaire, but there’s a strange reproachfulness in his eyes. A drop of water splashes onto Enjolras’ shirt, seeping quickly into the fabric, and it’s only then that Grantaire notices how badly Enjolras’ hands are shaking.

Without truly thinking, he wraps his hands around Enjolras’ to help steady him. As soon as his own actions register in his mind, he freezes, his breath catching in his throat. Enjolras is staring at him with wide eyes, their blue bright in contrast to his pale skin. Grantaire attempts to swallow past the lump in his throat as he helps ease the glass to Enjolras’ lips, to no avail.

Enjolras doesn’t break eye contact as he drinks, and Grantaire finds himself too enraptured to look away. Time seems to freeze around them, but then Enjolras finishes the glass, and Grantaire sets it down on the oak coffee table with a thud.

Enjolras thanks Grantaire, softly, though the end of his words are cut off by a yawn that he fails to stifle in his own shoulder.

Combeferre hums. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Enjolras attempts to protest, sitting up and insisting on his own wellness, but he’s once again interrupted by his own body, his eyes screwing shut as he yawns again. Grantaire finds it unreasonably attractive, and refuses to acknowledge his own gaze drifting to the patch of skin that was revealed as Enjolras’ shirt rode up.

Combeferre pulls Enjolras into his arms (Grantaire often forgets just how strong the young medical student is) and leaves the room, trailed by Courfeyrac.

Though they close the door, Grantaire can hear Combeferre’s worried scolding. They emerge a few moments later, and Combeferre sports a weary look as Courfeyrac hovers beside him.

“He was practically asleep the moment he hit the pillow,” Courfeyrac says, and they all settle in for what is sure to be a long afternoon.

~//~

Enjolras wakes a couple hours later, just as Courfeyrac and Jehan finish setting the table for lunch. 

Those few hours had felt like an eternity. They had played a few half-hearted games of cards, but no one was really in the mood. Joly wouldn’t stop staring at the door to Enjolras’ room, a pinched expression on his face. Eventually, they had all just ended up drinking iced tea, the taste bitter in their mouths, and speaking quietly as they waited.

Joly had worried his lip until it bled, which only served to fuel his anxiousness even further. As Bossuet held a damp cloth to his mouth, Joly had begun to ramble about possible causes, from a migraine to benign paroxysmal positional vertigo.

“I don't think he slept much last night,” Grantaire had spoken up, suddenly and out of turn. They had all turned to look at him. Combeferre, brow raised, had gestured for him to continue.

“Well, it’s just- I woke up this morning to the sound of him leaving his room, and I thought he was just getting water or something but then I heard him typing. It was like 4:50am, I think. He was working on an essay for the ABC, and it looked like he had been at it for a while.” He had shrugged, and Combeferre had sighed softly. It didn't seem like this was an uncommon occurrence.

They then fell into an uneasy silence, only broken by the restless bouncing of Jehan’s leg.

Jehan had never been one to sit still, especially when they were anxious. Courfeyrac, having noticed the hole Jehan was sure to be creating with the increasingly aggressive tapping of their foot, got up to make lunch, and not so subtly asked for Jehan’s assistance. Jehan certainly wasn’t the worst chef in their group (that title is held by Bossuet; Grantaire still shivers when thinking of the lasagna incident), but they’re also not the best. At least it gave them something to do, and let Courfeyrac’s grandparents’ poor carpet have some respite.

When Enjolras finally emerges from his room, only Grantaire is there to see him. The others have all settled in the adjacent dining room; Grantaire had been tasked with fetching their glasses from the living room table, where an abandoned card game still sits.

Enjolras looks better, objectively, though Grantaire doesn’t think he is truly capable of looking bad. His golden curls are slightly bunched and matted in some places, but they still shine in the afternoon sun. The bags under his eyes have eased slightly, though not completely, but he certainly looks more awake. He looks almost hesitant as he exits, closing the door softly behind him. His eyes scan the room before his gaze locks on Grantaire’s, searching.

Grantaire sets down the glass in his hand ( _Joly’s,_ he remarks distantly) and straightens. Enjolras tenses, minutely.

“Hey, Apollo.” He says, offering an incredibly awkward wave.

Enjolras smiles, humourlessly. “I suppose I don’t seem very godly anymore.”

Grantaire startles, taken aback by the despondency in Enjolras’ eyes. Grantaire opens his mouth to respond, but isn’t given the chance.

“Enj! You’re awake! How are you feeling?” Courfeyrac bounds over, and Grantaire once again bears witness to that wave of composure that washes over Enjolras’ features. A pleasant expression moves over his face , and he straightens up once again. 

“Better. Truly.” Enjolras smiles, and places a reassuring hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. Courfeyrac lets out a deep breath, and Grantaire can practically see the life reenter him on the inhale.

“Great! Cool! Jehan and I made lunch, if you’re feeling up to it, if not that’s totally cool, that’s fine, we can just put some in a Tupperware or something, wait, do we even have Tupperware here-”

“Courf.” Enjolras’ voice is just loud enough to overpower Courfeyrac’s increasingly rapid rambling, the expression on his face fond and slightly exasperated.

“I’m alright, Courf. And I think I could go for some food.” Courfeyrac grins at that, and tugs Enjolras towards the dining room, jumping into another fast-paced recounting of his and Jehan’s meal-making experience. Grantaire catches Enjolras’ gaze for a moment, and there’s something… _odd_ in his expression, but Enjolras looks away before Grantaire can decipher it.

He takes a deep breath, which does nothing to calm his racing heart, grabs Joly’s glass, and heads to the dining room.

~//~

The rest of the day passes without major incident. They play board games and laugh and drink sparkling apple juice and share a few beers. It’s nice, though Grantaire is sure everyone feels a lingering tenseness hanging over their heads.

Joly brushes a hand along the nape of Enjolras’ neck as he passes by, towards the kitchen. Courfeyrac is somehow even more clingy than usual, and not just to Enjolras. He takes every opportunity to kick his legs up into someone's lap, or lean his head on their shoulder. There isn't a moment that goes by where he's not in contact with at least one of them. None of them really mind.

Enjolras seems to fare much better, after those few hours of sleep. His shoulders have lost that tightness that they always seem to be carrying, and his cheeks are now flushed with a healthy glow. They’ve taken the day slowly, but it certainly isn't a frustration for anyone; they could all use the rest, what with the late night shenanigans that have bled into the early morning hours.

It’s around ten pm when they finally decide to make dinner; the late night meal a common occurrence during these cottage outings. Jehan, Courfeyrac, and Bossuet have all gone for a swim in the lake, Jehan having mused all day on seeing the stars unaffected by light pollution. Combeferre and Joly had assured them that they would come back to hot cocoa and dinner on the table. Enjolras had volunteered to help, and Grantaire offered as well.

And that’s where they are now; Grantaire can hear Combeferre draining the pot of pasta in the kitchen, and Joly is chatting with him as he stirs the sauce. Enjolras is with Grantaire in the dining room, as they set the table.

“I wanted to apologize again for waking you up this morning.” Enjolras says suddenly, and Grantaire freezes where he’s collecting forks. Enjolras is looking at him with a guilty expression. “Combeferre has very clearly told me many times not to type so loud.”

A sheepish smile blooms on Enjolras’ face as he sets out napkins, and Grantaire shakes his head.

“I already told you, Apollo. It’s alright.” Grantaire looks away as he speaks to set down the forks in their places. When he looks back up, something has soured in Enjolras’ expression.

“Why do you insist on calling me that?” Enjolras’ tone is sharp, sudden, and all too familiar. Grantaire folds his arms and turns towards Enjolras, intending to spout a witty retort, when Enjolras’ eyes widen.

It’s then that Grantaire realizes just how close they are to each other. Enjolras must have moved around the table, towards him, without Grantaire realizing. His own breath stutters, and he blinks dumbly as Enjolras’ gaze flickers down to his lips. Enjolras seems rooted in his spot, frozen, and Grantaire slowly brings one hand up to cup his neck. He barely even touches him, but the contact burns just the same.

His fingers twine gently in the curls at the nape of Enjolras’ neck, and Enjolras leans into the touch. Grantaire can’t help the fond smile that graces his lips at Enjolras’ reaction. He isn’t exactly in control of his actions as he leans closer, and Enjolras tilts his head just slightly and his eyes are closing and he can feel Enjolras’ breath in puffs against his lips and-

“We’re back!” Courfeyrac’s voice rings out as the back door swings open. Grantaire jumps away, and Enjolras startles from his daze. There’s a (very endearing) blush on his cheeks.

It takes Grantaire’s brain a moment to catch up because _holy fuck, he just almost kissed Enjolras._

Dinner is set on the table by the time the three swimmers have switched out of their trunks, though Courfeyrac and Jehan’s hair is still dripping wet (Jehan throws it up into a microfiber towel hat, but Courfeyrac just shakes his head like a wet dog in Combeferre’s direction to soak him. It works). 

Grantaire can’t seem to tear his eyes off Enjolras, who is still blushing red like a tomato (Joly checks his forehead for a fever). The dining room is buzzing with idle conversation as they eat, but Enjolras doesn’t say a word. He just keeps staring at Grantaire with a sort of stricken expression, and for the first time in his life, Grantaire wishes he could read minds.

Because Enjolras didn’t look repulsed when Grantaire leaned in to kiss him. If anything, he seemed slightly miffed at being interrupted. Which… does not add up. Why the hell would Enjolras want to kiss _him._

He almost starts to believe Joly’s earlier ramblings about Enjolras having some sort of brain tumour because clearly he must have been hallucinating someone else in Grantaire’s place. Feuilly, perhaps. Enjolras loves Feuilly. He does not love Grantaire. In fact, he _hates_ Grantaire. For good reason.

Except Enjolras is staring at him with warm, glittering eyes, a far cry from the dull, blank look that had overcome them this morning. He’s smiling, just barely, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, as he ducks down to eat his pasta. Grantaire’s heart pounds.

He is broken out of his love-hazed reverie by someone clearing their throat quietly next to him.

“You’re staring,” Jehan says softly, a knowing smile on their face.

“Yeah,” Grantaire answers absentmindedly. Jehan laughs, and Grantaire attempts to glare at him, but by the delighted expression on Jehan’s face, it only fuels them.

“ _Wine comes in at the mouth and love comes in at the eye; That’s all we shall know for the truth, before we grow old and die. I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you, and I sigh._ ” Jehan recites fondly, and Grantaire raises a brow.

“W. B. Yeats. I think it’s very applicable, mind you.” Jehan takes another bite of their garlic bread, chewing thoughtfully as they glance between Grantaire and Enjolras.

“Perhaps, but I do believe Yeats was wrong about some things, no matter how poetic he states it.” Grantaire takes minute pleasure in the amused surprise in Jehan’s face. They gesture for him to go on.

“ _The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity._ ” It’s one of the only quotes he remembers from the poetry writing elective Jehan had convinced him to take in his second year of university. He himself is surprised that he remembers it’s from Yeats.

“Ah, _The Second Coming._ I suppose so, though without the context of the poem it seems far harsher than it is. He is not saying that _all_ of the best lack conviction, nor that _all_ of the worst are full of passionate intensity. Merely, from his point of view, in the aftermath of the first world war, the darker side of passion and intensity had been revealed. He’s right, in the essence of it. Passion and intensity can bring about beautiful and powerful change, but they also wreak destruction.”

Grantaire glances at Enjolras, who is now grinning, eyes alight, at Courfeyrac, who is recounting some misadventure of Bossuet’s while they were down by the lake. It’s then that he realizes the truth of Jehan’s words. Enjolras, seemingly the embodiment of fervour, could win wars with just his words, but he would destroy himself in the process. His passion was his triumph _and_ his folly.

“You should talk to him,” Jehan says after a moment, nudging him with their elbow. Grantaire groans good-naturedly, leaning his head on Jehan’s shoulder.

“Garlic bread?” Jehan offers, and he can hear the smile in their voice as they hold a piece in front of his mouth. Grantaire hums and takes a bite. He looks up to see Enjolras staring at him, and he nearly chokes on the bread. There’s a strange sort of fire in Enjolras’ gaze, and if he didn’t know better, Grantaire would think it was desire.

The rest of the evening passes more or less smoothly (or has smoothly as it can with Courfeyrac high on hot cocoa. How that man can draw so much energy from even the slightest bit of sugar is forever beyond Grantaire’s comprehension). They play a few more board games, and settle down for the night (“The inherent homoeroticsm of brushing hands with your boyfriend has you both reach for a card,” Courfeyrac says at one point, staring far too deeply into a flushing Combeferre’s eyes, their hands still pressed against each other over the deck. “Get a room,” Grantaire calls with a groan, and they all dissolve into laughter. Enjolras grins at him, and Grantaire swears he would do anything to see that again).

It’s around midnight when Joly turns in, followed soon after by Bossuet. It’s fairly early for the rest of them, but the two of them want to be up and well-rested when Musichetta arrives the next morning. Jehan heads to bed around one-thirty, and the rest of them clean up before getting ready themselves.

Grantaire stares at the door to his, Joly, and Bossuet’s room and curses quietly.

“Forget how to open a door?” Enjolras says from behind him, and Grantaire jumps.

“God, you are silent when you move. And, no, but thank you for your unending faith in me.” He sobers up and gestures at the door, miserably. “I don’t want to wake them up.”

“You could sleep with me,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire chokes. Enjolras doesn’t seem to realize the implication of his wording until Courfeyrac snorts from his perch on the couch, and he then flushes a deep red.

“I mean- I didn’t mean _sleep_ with me, I just meant- Courfeyrac, shut up,” Enjolras’ stutters out a few more excuses as Courfeyrac cracks up behind them.

“I’d be happy to _sleep_ with you,” Grantaire says, purposefully lewd, and Courfeyrac, having just caught his breath, loses it again. Enjolras gapes at him for a moment, blinks, then smiles.

Combeferre rubs a hand over Courfeyrac’s back as he wheezes, and sighs. “Alright, time for bed.”

He scoops a shaking Courfeyrac into his arms with practiced ease, and leaves the room. A moment of silence passes of Grantaire and Enjolras as Courfeyrac’s laughter fades down the hall.

“You don’t have to share a room with me, by the way, I didn’t mean to pressure you into that situation. I can just go with Jehan and you can have the bed or something-” Enjolras rambles, his hands moving nervously through the air.

“Enjolras. I meant what I said.” He lightly places a hand on Enjolras’ arm, and Enjolras stares at the point of contact for a moment.

“That- that you’d be happy to _sleep_ with me?” Enjolras repeats, brows raised. Grantaire stutters.

“No, no, not like that, it’s just I’m fine sharing the bed with you. It’s a welcome change, honestly. Joly nearly strangled me in my sleep last night.” He amends quickly, shrugging.

Enjolras laughs lightly, and he’s got that grin again, and Grantaire thinks he could melt into the floor.

They dance around each other as they change their clothes and do various things to prepare for bed. The entire time, Grantaire can barely breathe because _holy fuck, he is going to be sharing a bed with Enjolras._

The room Enjolras had taken over was designated as belonging to one of Courf’s younger brother’s, and the bed is a twin. Grantaire inhales heavily when he realizes this. Enjolras seems to notice his hesitation.

“It’s not too late for me to sleep on the couch, you know.” 

Grantaire shakes his head and shoves him lightly into the room. “Don’t be absurd.”

Enjolras smiles again.

They climb into the bed carefully, both overly conscious of avoiding the other's touch. They lay down back to back, and Grantaire isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to fall asleep, with Enjolras’ warmth pressed against him.

Against all odds, he does, and surprisingly quickly. The last thing he hears is Enjolras’ quiet whisper of “Goodnight, R.”

~//~

He wakes up to the clock flashing _2:31_ at him in red letters, and to Enjolras sitting up next to him, typing furiously on his phone.

“Enj?” He mumbles, attempting to blink the sleep from his eyes.

“Sorry, I couldn’t sleep. Did I wake you again? I’m sorry.” Grantaire frowns, and motions for Enjolras to turn around. Enjolras raises a brow, but complies, setting his phone down on the covers over his lap.

“My mom used to do this for me when I couldn’t sleep,” He says in lieu of an explanation, and begins running his fingers through Enjolras’ golden curls. He can feel Enjolras tense below his ministrations, and runs a soothing hand down his arm. “Relax, Apollo. It’s alright.”

Slowly, Enjolras begins to unwind under his touch. He presses his back against Grantaire’s chest and keens into his hands as they rub over his scalp. When Grantaire runs a gentle finger over a spot behind Enjolras’ ear, he can almost swear Enjolras _moans._

Eventually, Enjolras’ breath evens out, and Grantaire lays him gently back onto the pillows. He plugs in both his and Enjolras’ phones, and brushes a loose strand of gold from Enjolras’ face before lying down beside him.

He sleeps better than he has in weeks.

~//~

Enjolras is still asleep when Grantaire wakes up, and his breath whistles softly as he exhales. It’s frustratingly endearing. 

It doesn’t help that Enjolras has curled into his side, his arms wrapped around Grantaire’s and his face smushed into Grantaire’s shoulder. His blond hair surrounds his head like a halo, shining in the morning light. Grantaire can’t resist brushing one stray curl that’s plastered to Enjolras’ face.

He can hear the other Amis bustling around outside the room, speaking and laughing softly. The time on the digital clock on the dresser tells him that it’s already past eleven am, but he still can’t bring himself to wake Enjolras up. He finally looks relaxed. Even awake, Enjolras has always looked young for his age, and now even more so. He looks ethereal.

Grantaire can’t bear to disturb him.

Fortunately, he’s saved from having to. Enjolras stirs slightly, groaning softly as he stretches out, before curling even tighter around Grantaire’s side. His blue eyes blink open slowly, bleary from sleep.

Grantaire smiles at him, and Enjolras smiles back, still half-asleep, but only for a moment. As soon as he registers his position around Grantaire, he flinches back almost comically. His back hits the wall with a resounding thud and his face bears a horrified expression. Grantaire winces, and ignores the pang in his own chest.

“I know, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let you get around me like that, but you just looked so peaceful and I didn’t want to disturb you-”

“No!”

Enjolras’ voice is quick but soft, and he has a hand hovering in the air, like he’s not sure what to do with it.

“I’m the one who should be apologizing. I know how I get when I sleep. I should’ve warned you. I should have just slept on the couch.” Enjolras runs a hand through his knotted hair, wincing as it pulls. “I’m sorry, I invaded your space, and that was wrong of me, Grantaire.”

Grantaire can’t bring himself to do much but stare at Enjolras, mouth agape. Enjolras stares back, before his haze flickers to the clock behind Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Oh my god, it’s past eleven already?” Grantaire can see the panic rising in Enjolras’ eyes. “I should have that essay finished by now, _oh god_ , I’m already so behind-”

Grantaire kisses him.

Grantaire _kisses him._

Enjolras freezes under his touch and Grantaire pulls back because _oh fuck, he’s fucked up royally, now-_

Enjolras stops him with a hand on his neck. The touch burns. Enjolras takes a moment to study Grantaire, his gaze piercing, before it softens. His fingers toy with a spring of hair behind Grantaire’s ear.

“It’s okay. I want this.” Enjolras leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. Grantaire’s stomach flips. 

“It’s just- I’ve never kissed anyone before,” Enjolras whispers against his lips, before pulling away, shame-faced.

Grantaire can’t help the surprise that’s written across his expression. He’s seen the way people look at Enjolras, and he certainly won’t be one to call them out on it. Enjolras is beautiful, in every sense of the word. His features, yes, but also his mind, his spirit. He’s one like no other.

And, right now, he’s looking like a kicked puppy.

“Hey,” Grantaire lifts his chin up with two fingers. “That’s alright. I’ll teach you.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen, and he nods, a little shaky.

Grantaire guides their lips back together again, and this time Enjolras kisses back, albeit stiffly. He presses a softer kiss to the corner of Enjolras’ mouth. “Relax, Apollo. It’s alright.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, and moves his hand to cup Grantaire’s cheek. “Thank you,” He whispers, his breath ghosting across Grantaire’s lips, and leans in to kiss him again.

Grantaire wonders for a second whether he’s died and gone to heaven, because Enjolras, his Apollo, is kissing him oh-so-sweetly, one of his marble-carved hands sliding into Grantaire’s hair. He wraps his arms around Enjolras’ waist, one hand traveling up the expanse of his back. He can feel those lithe muscles moving beneath his palm as their bodies move together in a dance to an unheard song.

“I love you,” Grantaire says into the kiss, and then freezes in horror as he realizes his own words. “Fuck, sorry, I-”

Enjolras silences him with a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth, like Grantaire had done earlier to him. His touch is feather-light, and it sends a shiver down Grantaire’s spine.

“It’s alright,” Enjolras says, and even though he doesn’t say it back, Grantaire knows that he means his words.

Enjolras smiles as their friends’ laughter rings out in the distance, a dopey, dazed expression on his face. Grantaire presses a kiss to the dimples in his cheeks and thinks, _yes, this is so, so alright._

**Author's Note:**

> important note: i know literally nothing about poetry and that entire conversation came out of no where so please do not judge my bad english literary analysis
> 
> anyways. hope y'all enjoyed! comments and kudos are greatly appreciated :)


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